The 'process notes' pieces were originally solicited by Maw Shein Win as addendum to her teaching particular poems and poetry collections for various workshops and classes. These poems and process note by Thea Matthews is part of her curriculum for her Poetry Workshop at University of San Francisco in their MFA Program for Spring semester of 2023. https://www.usfca.edu/arts-sciences/programs/graduate/writing-mfa
Huntsville
Alabama, 2021
for Christina Nance
“Your great grand-daddy was a
sharecropper here,”
my gramma would say, “until he
disappeared.”
Her skin was smooth like dark apple
butter,
and her daughter, my mother, would look
at me
like I was a whitetail. The windows
would crack,
and I’d be left with keloids and jars
of pickled eggs.
The rest of my family were alligators.
I grew up shy.
Bobbing back and forth in my Sunday
best,
I didn’t talk much. And when I did, I’d
speak
as if my tongue were a sweet potato.
And when I’d sing,
I sang
making the Lord so proud of me. I’d feel
the Spirit rise within, swaying my hips
and arms
in praise, like a church fan in one
hand, and frozen
strawberry lemonade, in another. O did
I love to sing,
and hum hymns in the halls, and when my
sister would say
“Sing, Christina!” I would! I sure
would, knowing
my heart would be safe for long walks
away
from the forest edge with my sister.
With my eyes hiding behind shelves, I
knew to pose,
pay my taxes, write letters, pick
passing
blackbirds as lovers. They’d leave, I’d
stay.
I can smell anything. The scent of passion seeping
in through a man’s skin. I’d smell the
sheets, Old Spice,
what lotion she was wearing. I can even
smell
the white lilies on the day of my
funeral.
To be a whitetail hunter, you must be
so still
to kill one, be so cold to later say it
was suicide.
I stopped singing the day I went
missing.
Supposedly, I’m seen first lying on the lawn.
Supposedly, I’m then seen leaning on the hood of a cop car.
Supposedly, I take off my shoes…Twelve
days
and nights go by… Where once to
transport
convicts, evidence, a whitetail hunter
dressed
in camouflage smiles, one arm around
his doe
for the trophy picture.
I’m found dead in the back of a police
van.
––By Thea Matthews (2022)
Originally published in Southern Indiana Review, Vol.29, No.1. Spring 2022. Print.
Process of writing “Huntsville” ––
As a poet, everything and anything can lead to poetry––a memory, a dead sparrow, a friend’s laugh, a news headline. So when I came across this news headline about the death of Christina Nance, I heard in my ear Write me. I’m a poem.
We live in a bona fide era of mass shootings, systemic police brutality, and simply humans “hunting” humans on unprecedented levels, hence, I was immediately intrigued by the name of the town itself: Huntsville. From this gravitational pull, much of my writing for me these days begins with research. Best believe, I researched and observed photos of the town, watched security footage of Christina in the parking lot, and read what her family said about her. I read and watched as much as what was freely available to me, and I researched and kept researching until one night, I knew I was ready.
I had enough to write to embody the essence, the life force of a woman who lives beyond the material plane. To write a dramatic monologue or persona poem means I uphold my responsibility to not have the person become a caricature of some kind or romanticize violence in any way to minimize or invalidate an experience. I incorporated prose elements such as dialogue and used a method of characterization to illuminate the rise and devastating fall of this person.
When I write in persona / dramatic monologues I write to affirm an experience in high definition. I validate on a deeper level, and it’s an honor because for me, writing poetry is a powerful way to affirm and validate experiences. No one could argue with me about how I felt or what I endured when I sat to write a poem.
February, 2023
Thea Matthews is a poet, author, and educator born and raised on the land of the Ohlone, San Francisco, California. She holds an MFA in poetry from New York University. Her poetry has appeared in or is forthcoming in Epiphany Magazine, Alta Journal, The Courtland Review, West Trade Review, Southern Indiana Review, Interim, Tahoma Literary Review, The New Republic, and others. She was nominated for Best New Poets 2022 and Best of the Net 2021 for her work; and is the author of Unearth [The Flowers] (Red Light Lit Press, 2020), which was listed under Kirkus Reviews’ Best Indie Poetry of 2020. Currently, Thea lives on the land of the Lenape, Brooklyn, New York.
